


Ten Lashes

by AviaTantellaScott



Category: Chronicles of Narnia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AviaTantellaScott/pseuds/AviaTantellaScott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aslan gave Aravis ten wounds, one for each of the lashes inflicted upon a slave girl in her childhood home. This is the story of Mufiyah, whose drugged sleep facilitated the young Tarkheena's ride to freedom, and who paid the price for her mistress's escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Lashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Transposable_Element](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transposable_Element/gifts).



> While not graphic enough for true Archive Warnings, please be advised that this story deals with slavery and the canonical repercussions of Aravis's escape. There is some violence.

As she climbed reluctantly out of her deep slumber, the first thing that she noticed was the soft, pounding ache in her head. A moment later, she realized how heavy her eyelids felt, as if she would need to lift them with her own two hands. Opening her eyes felt too monumental a task for the moment; perhaps she would go on sleeping forever. She started to give herself back to the darkness, feeling its warm, inviting hands coming up to cradle her and draw her in.

Abruptly, she felt the kick, hard to her shins, and she instinctively curled her body against it as the hands fell away. A gruff voice was saying something stern, but her ears felt clogged and her brain too foggy to comprehend. Another kick, harder this time, and a raspy cry escaped her throat. Even though she knew it had come from her, it still sounded far away.

“Stupid girl!”

She made out the voice this time. Perhaps the pain in her shins was sharpening her slow, dull senses.

“Where is your mistress?” the voice demanded.

“I don’t—” her whisper was cut off by a sharp kick to her lower back and she yelped. She curled tighter into a ball, bringing her hands up to cover her neck. “Please--!”

“Where is the lady Aravis? You lazy, worthless girl, have you let her go off to make her sacrifices alone?”

Her eyes finally opened and the room around her, blurry at first, came into view. She remembered the rich carpet upon which she lay; these were her young mistress’s chambers. Lady Aravis had ordered her to come last night to assist in preparing for their impending journey. But why—

Another kick, this time square on her hip. “Answer me, slave!”

“Morning!” She cried out, tears stinging her eyes. She gasped. “We are to leave in the morning! I am to wake her and we—”

“Stupid girl!” the voice repeated, and she felt a rough hand grab her wrist and jerk upward. Stumbling, she was pulled harshly to her feet and came face to face with Abdalmalek, a hulking, fierce man who often guarded the master when he traveled on business to Tashbaan or elsewhere. Many of the other young female slaves feared him for his quick temper, brutish strength, and lustful eye.

Abdalmalek now had her by both arms, his large hands squeezing mercilessly, the nails biting into her skin. Her knees trembled as she met his eyes.

“Lady Aravis was to leave yesterday to make her sacrifices. Have you let my master’s only daughter, the delight of his eyes, go out into the wilderness to meet the goddess alone while you slept on her carpets like a lazy dog?”

Her head was pounding in earnest now, sharp pain throbbing behind her eyes and across her temples. Nothing Abdalmalek was saying made any sense. She would not have let Aravis go alone; the mistress of the house had charged her with reporting back anything her stepdaughter said and did. There was a reward in it for her. Extra food perhaps, or maybe a new set of hand-me-down clothes from one of the Tarkheena’s ladies. She’d given up hoping that any good deed would merit a return to the family that had sold her, though that certainly had been her younger, more foolish self’s most ardent wish.

Abdalmalek didn’t give her time to answer before dragging her roughly toward the open door. As her uncooperative feet shuffled and stumbled down the opulent hall, catching on carpets and slipping on polished stone, her muddled brain grasped for an explanation or a memory as to what had happened. She remembered Lady Aravis sending another slave to fetch her. She remembered arriving at the young mistress’s room, where Aravis played the part of a lovestruck maiden eager to take her leave of Zardeenah and become a married woman. She remembered how forced Aravis’s smile was, how her words dripping with honey were laced with the slightest hint of vinegar. And then she remembered the wine.

The wine. The young mistress had slipped something into her wine. Lady Aravis had run away.

* * *

 

Ten lashes. Her back burned where the whip, wielded by the horrible Abdalmalek, had stung her. He had begged for the honor, prostrating himself with flowery words of supplication at the master’s feet. His victim had avoided his eyes as much as possible during the horrid ordeal, so terrified was she at the joy she saw within them as he did his work.

They had all seen it; the entirety of the household had been forced to bear witness. She saw them all through her tears: kindly Mahlah who loved her like a daughter; Habib, the handsome boy who had teased her when they were children together; Riya, who was proud, cunning, and deceitful, always looking to make herself a favorite of the mistress at the expense of others; Mistress herself, the great Tarkheena of Calavar, whose eyes flashed with rage at her slave’s failure. Her friends, her enemies, everyone; they had all witnessed the shame of Mufiyah, the slave girl who had so betrayed the family of the great Kidrash Tarkaan.

Rahim, one of the oldest of her fellow slaves, had helped her to her feet after Abdalmalek begrudgingly laid down his whip. Rahim cut the cord that bound her hands and half-carried her safely back to the woven mat where she slept in the women’s quarters. Blood had soaked through her rough cloth dress, causing it to stick to her battered back and making her whimper when her steps caused the material to rub against her wounds. She had fallen heavily to the hard dirt floor, flush with embarrassment, shame, pain, and the lingering effects of the drugged wine.

It was there that her tears began to overtake her. She had cried out when he whipped her – she wasn’t strong like some of the men, who stayed stone-faced when whipped for insolence or disobedience. Tears had trailed down her cheeks then, but now she wept in earnest, giving herself over to her sobs. She had never particularly loved the young mistress, and she knew that a slave was naught by a gnat in the eyes of the Tarkaans who ran Calormen, but there was still some small part of her that was human and felt betrayed, fearful, and hopeless.

What if Lady Aravis was never found? What if she had been killed, or kidnapped, or worse? They would kill her, too, and not quickly. Surely Abdalmalek would relish the opportunity to impress his master with his bravery in carrying out such a punishment.

Something soft brushed her hand and she startled, sending new waves of pain across her back. Her eyes popped open and through the tears she was surprised to see a cat, not the slim, sinewy, dark felines of Calavar but a large, bushy yellow cat. It was staring at her with something like kindness in its deep, solemn eyes. She weakly reached out her hand, and without hesitation the cat came nearer, lying close to her with its warm body. Something about not being alonge made her tears come anew, but it was a different sort of crying, the kind where the tears make things better and you feel more hopeful in the end. She could hear the cat purring softly as she stroked the soft fur on its golden back. It didn’t seem to mind that the strokes were dampened by the occasional teardrop.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, not feeling the least bit silly for speaking to a creature that couldn’t respond. Any pride she had once had was certainly gone now. Something about the way the cat his head to face her, letting out a single long breath like a contented sigh, reassured her. For a moment, she wondered if he _could_ respond. Then, he laid his shaggy head on her folded arm and she followed suit, feeling strangely safer than she had since coming to this place as a girl. Soon, her sobs had quieted, and she found herself drifting into a peaceful sleep.

That night, she dreamt of cool forests, high craggy mountains, a great castle shining by the sea, and herself, dancing free and joyous under a gorgeously full Northern moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Transposable_Element for giving me such great prompts to work with! I hope that you're happy with this little fic-gift and that it fulfilled your prompt, even if it doesn't quite turn Calormen canon on its head :) It also turned out a little more grim than originally intended. 
> 
> Original Prompt (#3): I love stories set in Calormen, especially involving world-building, and even more especially when they partially or completely overturn what we're told about Calormen in canon. I'd like to see something using the supporting characters from the books, rather than Aravis and Shasta. OCs would also be fine, and I'm not picky about era or canon fidelity.


End file.
